


Agony Angel

by rather_live_in_their_world_writer



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Depression, F/F, F/M, Happy Ending, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Torture, Inspired by Music, Iron Man 2, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Medias res, Multi, Natasha Romanov Feels, Pre-Iron Man 1, Pre-Iron Man 2, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Natasha Romanov, Social Anxiety, Sorry Not Sorry, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Suicide Attempt, Torture, eventually, everyone is sad, specifically, twenty one pilots - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-06-02 07:38:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6557836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rather_live_in_their_world_writer/pseuds/rather_live_in_their_world_writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Angel in Agony.</p><p>A Man Remade into a Monster. </p><p>An Assassin All Alone. </p><p>In a world where your soulmate's words on your skin, there's a trio destined for pain from the beginning. A fallen Angel, a lost Soldier, and a lonely Assassin. </p><p>Follow the an angel who doesn't know anything but pain, a man who doesn't know anything, and a woman who's lost everything in a heartbreaking, shaking, invigorating adventure of loss, pain, and memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Her blank brown eyes flicker open to an oddly familiar room she has no memory of. They slowly trace the concrete box, the dark tinted window she can’t see out of, a flimsy curtain she somehow knew hid the bathroom (a toilet, a shower head, and a drain), her eyes stop on the large metal door that wasn’t designed to keep people out, but to keep her in.

                She stands, stumbling a bit at the head rush, and stops as she catches her reflection. She slowly approaches it, studying the sick looking woman. Large eyes, situated on hollow features, pale once olive toned skin stretching over the intense jagged lines of her face. Her head is shadowed with buzzed hair, and as she slowly runs her finger tips over the hairs, they’re sharp and spiky. A strong jaw and sharp nose, thick eyebrows. She steps closer to the mirror, so she could examine the scars on her face and neck. From split lips and eyebrows, to gashes stitched half-heartedly. She notices the start of a thick scar starting at the bottom of her neck, and she slowly lifts her shirt, gasping softly as the ugly scars that make a ‘t’ across her chest come into view. But they don’t hold her attention for long.

                Two barely healed deep gashes on the sides of her ribs, with dark black handwriting printed over the pink lines. She runs her fingers over them, and doesn’t flinch at the muted pain. _I’ll keep you safe, Angel_ in a scratchy cursive, sharp and precise, and _Just calm down, it’s okay, you’ll be okay_ in feminine print, rolling curves. Who would do that to her, stab her in the sides? She drops her shirt and looks into the girl’s empty eyes, that were missing _something_ , she just couldn’t determine what. Happiness? Memories?

She notices how quiet the room is, the stale air hanging heavy around her, even the gentle rasp of her breathing seems like in intrusion to the emptiness. It’s not the kind of silence that comes with anticipation or grief. It’s thick, hard for her to breathe around. She swallows thickly, her eyebrows pinching together in her panic. This, this was wrong.

There was supposed to be something there, in the background. Voices, sounds, the soft click of someone’s heals going past her bedroom, the laughter of someone distant, someone who wasn’t around as much as she wanted. The heavy steps of the man who scared her, who smiled wrong, as if he was trying to convince her he was to be trusted. Silence was wrong.

Silence was supposed to be filled with the screeching of guitars, the soft thrum of bass, the croon, the- the screaming of emotions through words that were written across her brain, tattooed on her heart. She couldn’t recall- she couldn’t remember why, but silence was horrifying. If the silence had gone on too long, she filled it with her sobbing, her loneliness, her depression. She just couldn’t remember why.

She didn’t have the experiences that came with those emotions. She couldn’t remember why she was grieving, why she didn’t trust the man who tried too hard, why she had the echoing feeling of sadness and loneliness that must’ve sprouted from somewhere. _Someone._ Why there was still the tiniest glimmer of hope that wouldn’t go away, no matter how long- how long she had been trapped. Stuck. Stuck by herself in this concrete box that echoed with the screams that died in her throat, that choked her, with faint visions of redheaded women and men with shiny arms.

She doesn’t know why- but she knows- she knows- she knows the anxiety, the depression, the silence like it was a painting in the hallway that she passed every day, hoping he’d see her and call her down to spend time with him. Spend time with who? _Who?!_

                The air gets too thick and suddenly she can’t breathe anymore, pushing herself back into her corner, her head going into her hands as tears stream down her face, sobs ripping from her throat. Her heart’s hammering in her chest, pounding so hard she thinks it’s about to burst.

                The metal door bursts open and she screams as they try to grab her wrists, her ankles. She kicks one of them in the face, elbows another, thrashes until something’s jabbed into her neck and she feels herself get so tired, woozy. Everything goes black and she dreams of teary green eyes, sobbing over her, and a voice calling her Angel, cool metal brushing over her cheek, telling her to run, to fly.

 

                She awakes to the silence again, with a muted emptiness that doesn’t feel right. It feels so forced, like a smile at a camera, at the tall women with _click clack_ heals, at the man she doesn’t trust, at the man she prayed she could. The silence weighs down on her, and she feels it in her shoulders, her back, the heaviness.

                Suddenly there’s a ripping, a tearing, with blood splattering the walls and her white hospital gown, like some kind of twisted piece of art. She chokes on a scream, and stumbles into the middle of the room, trying to get to the shower, so the water could cool her burning skin. She falls to her knees, clawing at her back as something sprouts from her shoulder blades. It’s familiar, the weight in her shoulders, it reminds her of his voice, her reassuring hand stroking back the blood that threatened her eyes. It reminds her of an older woman, with olive skin and a soft smile, who held her when she cried, who perished so slowly it was torture. Who sent her to her death when she thought she was sending her to her destiny. Her mother.

                Her eyes catch her reflection and her hands raise to her face in horror. Giant, ebony wings protrude from her back, sleek feathers that are damp with her blood. It’s so familiar, and she can’t find out why! It felt like a scene she had performed over and over, the same lines, the same stage directions. She’s just waiting for someone to yell ‘cut!’ and start it all over again. The same scene, the same pain, the same weight in her shoulders.

                It was all too familiar.


	2. Chapter 2

Natasha was well versed in her trade. Her trade being deception, seduction, and elimination. But it all fell away in Budapest. There had been a suspicious crash in the outskirts of city, and since they were already there, her and Clint headed to the abandoned warehouse that was the crash site. That’s where they found her.

                Angel.

                She was laying on her side, sobbing, giant ebony wings laying mangled against the concrete, blood pooling around her head. Something pulled in her heart, a feeling that she hadn’t felt in years, not since- not since-

                Suddenly she’s running toward the woman, whose face is pale from blood loss, her eyes fluttering shut. “Just calm down, it’s okay, you’ll be okay,” she says, her hands fluttering for a moment before one grabs her hand and the other strokes back the blood from her head wound. The woman’s eyes flutter shut for a moment before they open again, her grip on her hand weak, squeezing with every labored breath. Nat’s chest is uncomfortably tight.

                “He called me Angel,” she blubbers, pain accentuating her voice, “I’m not- I can’t- I don’t even- I don’t even know who I am!” she cries.

                Natasha’s own eyes water and she swallows down her panic best she can and yells at Clint. “Call for a medic-,” she chokes on the emotion building in her throat and Clint stares at her in disbelief for a moment before she barks, “Now!” She turns back to the pale Italian looking girl, with life fading from her eyes. “Hey- hey, come on, stay awake sweetheart, you can- you can do it,” tears stream down both their faces. “Come on, come on!” she cries as the angel’s eyes flutter close as her heart ceased to beat. “No! Come on! Come on! Please- _please-_ don’t- I can’t- I can’t lose you, too!” She sags forward, stroking away the dirt and grime on her face. “ _Please_ ,” she whispers. “ _I can’t be alone again_.”

               

                Her face is blank, impassive as they wheel the dead angel away, her wings dragging on the ground. Sitwell walks up, and tries to ask her what the hell happened, but she doesn’t- she can’t speak. Not yet. She takes in a deep breath and it shudders out of her, her eyes red and itchy. Clint walks up and drags her away from where they’re loading apart of her soul away. One third of her soul: missing. Another part: dead. And now it was just her part: damaged beyond repair.

                When they finally get an explanation, it’s Coulson who finally cracks her. “She is- was my soulmate, sir,” she says, her voice cracking along the edges. She clears her throat and meets Coulson’s pitying eyes for a second, before they flit away to the corners of the room. They bury her and it’s done. They close the case, no one tries to figure out where she came from, who she was, or what was done to her. Well, everyone except her.

 

                It’s only a few long years later that another piece of the puzzle comes into play. She’s Natalie Rushmore, Tony Stark’s new assistant. She’s waiting for Stark to finish getting ready for his party when a picture in the hallway catches her eye. It’s her.

                Angel.

                She’s skilled in deception, seduction, and elimination, but it takes every fiber of her being not to break down. The only part of her that gives way is her eyes, which water pathetically. Angel looks so sad. Her smile is fake, her eyes too wide, her skin layered in makeup, too much concealer under the eyes. It’s a school photo, with the plain blue background and spotty lighting.

                Her damaged soul ignites with fury when she realizes that her Angel was Evangeline Maria Giovanni-Stark. A child whose mother died of breast cancer and her father was a drunkard that never got within arm’s length. She doesn’t know if this discovery makes it worse or better. Her hands fist at her sides, as she denies the urge to raise a hand once more to her beautiful face, to stroke away the pinch in between her eyebrows. To kiss her forehead one more time before they raise the sheet to cover her pale features.

                She fixes her own features into seduction, even as it makes her sick on the inside, and calmly walks to his door, knocking softly, offering to help him pick out a watch. She’s never felt this dirty in her whole career.

 

                Every second after the unfortunate discovery is spent in deep burning rage and regret, wondering why she deserved to have everything she loved taken away, then she remembers the red in her ledger and everything hurts. Natasha (“Natalie”) watches Stark get drunk and wonders if he would recognize the writing on her ribs. Maybe he’d seen her handwriting and would realize she was the one who cursed his daughter to a fate she didn’t deserve. She’s the reason why Angel is dead.

                Nat wonders if he misses her. If he regrets every moment, every minute, he didn’t spend with her before she “died.” If she’s the reason he spends his life in a haze, ruining his life, because a little part inside of him knows he deserves the pain, the heartache. Knows he’s nothing but everything he didn’t want to be. His father. Howard Stark. She wonders if he realizes that.

                Natasha knows she would have treasured every moment with Angel, every chance she was supposed to get, every second she could spend getting to know her. This was part of the reason she didn’t want him on the Avengers. Another being she knows she could never trust him, even for a moment. He’s caused her too much pain. Natasha’s not sure if she means herself or Eva- Angel. She’ll always be their angel.

                New York happens and the pain and heartbreak reminds her of Budapest, where loss hung heavy in the air. She tells as much to Clint, and she can tell they’re going to have a talk about it later. That sucked.

                What sucked more was when she almost (almost) began to feel sad when Stark disappeared into the portal, but she caught herself and didn’t hesitate to close it. She almost felt bad about the part of her that wanted him incinerated by that nuke, with all the other heartless bastards.

                They all gather around and she wonders if they all had seen her file, the words, her soulmates. Both of them marked deceased, both of them unidentified. It hurts to know they’ve never hurt like she has, but she doesn’t think she could wish this pain on anyone. Anyone except her.

                DC is a disaster, and that’s where she finds him. Like she always does. On the opposite side, birthed from death and blood. She wonders if he recognizes her, if he can sense the bond between them. She both hopes he does and hopes he doesn’t, she can’t go on alone, but she can’t tell him either. She doesn’t want to be the one to tell him, doesn’t want to break his heart.

                She doesn’t want him to hurt like she does, so she leaves, and doesn’t look for him as she tries to find a new alias, a new identity that doesn’t hurt so much. Destroying HYDRA on her way. No one messes with her soulmate.

                Then everything changes with the simple click of a file. Project Agony Angel. Everything shatters around her, fire burns in her veins like never before, her eyes alight with rage. Nobody messes with her soulmates.

                But first, she’ll need help.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is a weapon. 
> 
> She is a daughter.

 He is a weapon. Weapons are empty, numb, emotionless. So what was the tightness in his chest, the pain in his heart that came with the sound of her echoing screams? He’s listened to countless amounts of screaming. All different kinds, high and low-pitched, loud, silent. But this- this woman’s screams make him feel sick inside. An emotion that he’s not supposed to feel.

                There’s a familiar tug in is heart, one that brings a painful headache and shaky visions of red hair and before he even knows it, he’s out the door, with a room filled with dead technicians and guards behind him, murder in his eyes. They weren’t expecting him to snap, he had just come from the chair, he was supposed to be a clean slate, with no memory, no loyalties for anything- anyone but HYDRA. That was their first mistake.

                You can’t take away someone’s soul, no matter what you do to them.

                They aren’t expecting him, so the guard at the door is easy work, and there’s no command that could ever keep him from her. He’s swift and efficient, slashing and shooting anyone that gets in his way. She’s still screaming. When every doctor and nurse is laying on the floor, he looks to the woman, and stops.

                A voice in his head, a voice he knows he hasn’t heard in years, whispers quietly. She’s an angel. Large ebony wings are strapped to a table that she’s thrashing against, sobbing. He realizes she thinks he’s going to kill her. He rushes to comfort her. “ _I’ll protect you, Angel_ ,” the nickname slips from his lips naturally, which is odd, nothing is natural for the soldier, everything is deliberate, precise. The Winter Soldier is confused at the feeling that bubbles up inside him, something akin to rage, at the blood that has splattered across her pale face, the way she flinches when his hand goes to wipe it away.

                “ _You can’t_ ,” she whispers, tears tracking silently down her hollow features. Something clicks and suddenly a gap he didn’t know was there is filled. As he watches her figure fade into the darkening purple sky, he knows.

She’s another missing piece he won’t remember.

 

                He knew them. The man on the bridge, the woman with fire like hair that ignites a light to all his dark places. He knows them. Then they make him lose them once again. The last thing he sees before it all goes away is angel wings and green eyes, and then it’s a dream he can’t quite remember. An empty slate that won’t ever be filled, he doesn’t bother grasping at those straws, as he can’t remember why they were important.

               

He needs them. He needs Natalia, he needs Angel. (Isn’t so horrible he doesn’t even know his own soulmate’s name? After everything, he still doesn’t truly know her like he wants to) And he knows exactly who will help him find them.

 

                He walks into Stark Tower on a Sunday morning, dropping to his knees and putting his hands behind his head as he feels a familiar tug in his chest. He needs their help.

 

 ________________________________________________________________________________

 

                “Da-Tony?” she asks, walking down one of the chrome hallways, past the tinted window that hid her father’s lab and that Malibu sunset painting she walked past every day, hoping he would call her in to spend time with his only living family member. But apparently not. Apparently she wasn’t worth the time of her own father. The familiar ache in her chest comes back as she thinks of her mother.

                “He’s not here,” she gasps and spins around to see Obadiah flanked by two men in black, their faces blank. “Actually, you’re home alone.” He says as she backs away slowly, her fingers skimming over the white wall as she backs away toward her room, her deep, innocent eyes wide with fear. “And you’ve decided to take the chance to finally kill yourself,” he smiles, friendly, despite his words. How did he know- she’s only ever told her diary-

                “No,” she shakes her head, tripping into a table, knocking the vase and frames over as she tries to back away. “Please,” she pleads as they come closer, trying to crawl away. “HELP!” she screams as they grab her. “ _HELP ME!_ ”

 

                “Sir, if you don’t mind me saying, I believe we could find a use for it,” one of the faceless men in black says conversationally, as if talking of old car parts, something that wasn’t a living, breathing, _person._ A person who was scared out of her damaged mind. There was tape over her mouth, and her eyes were swelling, her hands and feet bound. Stane nodded and she was suddenly grabbed, taken from the room.

                “We’ll stage the suicide, say it’s too gruesome for Stark or Potts to stomach. I think they’re dumb enough to believe that.”

                And they were.

 

                Her head feels cold, her body too stiff, as if she was asleep for too long in an uncomfortable position. She’s in a cool concrete box, trapped within by a heavy metal door. Silence echoes around her, even her breathing seems like an intrusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate comments! Tell me what you think below!


	4. Chapter 4

                She doesn’t know what they gave her, only that it burned. Her veins were on fire, her wings shuddered and snapped back into an empty place in her back she didn’t know was there, she was shaking, sweating, her head was swimming. The walls moved and shifted, her body was too cold but far too hot, she was so confused.

                _“Evan,” her mother whispered quietly, raising the cool back of her hand to her forehead. “How’re you feeling my dear?” she asked quietly, her accent rolling slightly.  Evan coughed pathetically as an answer and Alba sighed, running her fingers through her daughters thick, dark curls, smiling slightly as she relaxed under her touch. “You’ll be fine, my dear, your soul pieces will protect you when I cannot.”_

                “Where are they?” she whispered brokenly, tears streaming steadily down her face, as her unfocused eyes flickered around the room, lost in memories that were long forgotten.

                _“You’re sick,” Evan repeated, dumbly, staring at her mother’s soft face, creased slightly with lines of stress she was trying to hide. “How sick?” she says, striding up to her mother and kneeling before her, grasping her hard worked, calloused hands. Her mother bowed her head in shame, dark hair falling around her. “Mama, how sick,” she repeated, though in her aching heart, she already knew the answer._

She screams, her eyes squeezing shut, her nails digging into her scalp, leaving bloody crescent moons, as she tried to grasp onto the ghost of soothing fingertips dragging through long hair, helping her through the anxiety attacks and the migraines that pulsed violently through her head. She tried to- so very had, but it all slipped away again, like trying to hold water in her hands.

                And suddenly she was a blank slate once again.

 

                The whole facility is in a panic. She hears whispers of being exposed, of having to wipe everything, start all over. They’re going to kill her. She can’t find it in herself to care as someone else’s screams echo through the corridors.

She wraps her arms around herself, scratching up and down her arms, leaving angry red lines on her translucent skin. She hums a distant tune that she can’t quite remember, but it makes her feel warm on the inside. It reminds her of cold New York winter nights with no heating, the warm smile of a thin woman with a long neck and endless brown eyes. It almost slips away again, but with the prospect of the sweet relief of death so close, she holds onto the warmth for just a bit longer. They open the door and her heart starts racing.

               And something snaps inside of her and everything goes dark.

 

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

                She watches him through the one sided window, staring at him as the bond tugs in her chest. He knows she’s here. Natasha swallows and runs her fingers over the sharp, precise writing on her ribs, sighing lightly as it hums under her fingertips. She watches him visibly relax, his flesh hand going to his left side, where her mark resides. She remembers nights they had stolen together, a single light in a dark place. Nat remembers the warmth that flooded her body as she touched her handwriting. ‘ _Do not tell anyone, they will keep us apart_ ,’ she had whispered as they both felt the unfamiliar pull in their chests. They had taught him to kill his soulmates, just like they did her, but they had been overcome with the instinct to protect, to love.

                He had protected her by beating her, by teaching her everything he knew. They loved each other secretly, stealing gentle strokes over hands, small kisses that were never to be shared. They beat each other black and blue, fighting and training so they knew, without a doubt, they would survive to meet their Angel. The one who would fit their jagged edges, would tear them apart and put them back together again. Would make them whole again.

                He knew that she was near, but yet she didn’t move, as she couldn’t break his heart, couldn’t let him hurt like she did all these years. So she watches him silently, hiding her pain as well as she could as he sat there, his eyes staring just to the right of her.

                “I lost her, James, I lost Angel.” He flinches.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

                His arm whirls as the man from the bridge walks in, looking relieved and happy. “Buck-,” the Soldier interrupts.

                “I need to see Natalia, please,” he says, his eyes drifting to the tinted mirror behind the man. She was watching him; he could feel it. Feel the pain she was trying to hide, the hope barely stemming. The man nodded and left the room, the door slamming behind him. They were having an argument, he could feel the annoyance and anger bubbling up inside her. His heightened senses picked up muffled yelling, and finally a door slamming. She was coming closer. He stands, his left arm yanking free of the handcuffs they had put on him as she opens the door, looking frustrated and even more beautiful than when they had last seen each other. “Natalia,” he whispers.

                She rushes into his chest, her arms squeezing him closer. His face splits into a grin, but it dies quickly as she sobs. “I lost her- I lost her, James, they took her away,” she sobs in babbled Russian. He freezes, his body locking up, his arm whirls, and suddenly tears are streaming down his face.

                “We’ll find her, Natalia, we’ll get her back.”

                They had to.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She escapes and shuts everything out.

                 She wakes in the woods, suddenly and violently. She thrashes for a moment before realizing she was alone, the silence echoes around her.

                _“Evan, dear, calm down,” her mother soothed, stroking back her wild curls._

_“I- I can’t,” she sobbed into her mother’s chest, “You’re **dying** , and there’s nothing I can do-,” her mother interrupts. _

_“Everyone goes eventually, darling,” she coos, quietly, rubbing her daughter’s back, calmingly. Evan’s sobs rack through her. “My time is just a bit sooner,” she whispers, her voice soft. Evan takes a shuddering breath, and lets it out slowly._

_“I don’t want you to go,”_ she whispers to herself, the memory not fully leaving this time, tears tracking down her gaunt cheeks. She wipes at them, and sighs deeply, looking around herself once again. The loss is heavy in her chest, though she can tell the memory is older. She was just fourteen when her mama died and she was shipped from New York to Malibu. Her mother thought she was sending her to her destiny, but really, it was a death sentence.

She stumbles onto a highway, and into a small town where nothings open. She breaks into the corner store and grabs all the supplies she can manage, using the bathroom to wash off most of the blood, and stops when she looks at herself in the mirror, studying her face and the scars. She discards her shirt and stops, studying the black, ebony words printed on her pale skin. She studies them for a moment, flinching at the headache forming behind her eyes and hurriedly pulls on the soft black t-shirt with a red hour glass and some stiff jeans, grabbing some hair bleach she’ll use when her hair grows back and some wigs for now from the Halloween section. She ignores the emotions fretting over from her soul bonds, that are telling her that they’re alive, alive and needing her. She wipes tears from her eyes and blocks them off, knowing that however they are,

No one needs a broken science experiment.

 

_“So,” ‘Call me Happy’ starts, glancing back at her through the rear view mirror. “What do you like to do, Ms. Giovanni?” he asks conversationally. She shrugs, fiddling with her battered composition notebook, tapping her dull pencil against it a few times before stopping, suddenly aware of herself and how annoying that must be. She starts again, not finding it in herself to care that much. “Got any friends back home? Boyfriends?” She shakes her head, her hands finding her ribs. “Oh, waiting for your soulmate, huh?” She nods._

_“Yeah.” She was waiting. She just didn’t realize then, what she would have to go through to find them, or rather, have them find her._

She decides that New York City is a good place for someone with no memory or identity to hide. Hell’s Kitchen even better. No one would notice a new homeless person, with horrible scars and a story that’ll never be heard. She couldn’t even remember why soulmates where important anymore.

 

                Nothing was important anymore.

 

                She blocked them off. Natasha couldn’t believe it. Now that Bucky had his memory and two of them were together, their bond was stronger. But she blocked them off, and it scared her. They could feel the muted emotions of loneliness and self-hatred echo through their bond before suddenly it was nothing. Nothing at all.

                “Natalia,” James said gruffly, striding up to her and pulling her close. “We’ll get her back, we’ll find her,” he says, softly, stroking back her red hair. Natasha shakes her head, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

                “She doesn’t want to be found.”

 

 

                She tries to ignore the mirror, knowing she would see the ghostly girl with bleached platinum hair and too prominent collar bones, the pitch black writing that ran down her ribs. The dead look in her dark, empty eyes, that lacked a spark so long gone it was like it was never there.  She runs a hand through her brittle blonde hair and looks to the depths of her broken brain. Sensing the wall that kept her from something, she didn’t know if it was her missing memories, the ones that came before and when she was captured, or something else entirely. Something much more painful.

                She still wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to remember, to know the things they did to her, the things they forced her to forget. Like her father, whoever he was, or the man who did this to her, the man she couldn’t trust. And worst of all, the moments of happiness that will never be relived.

                She sighs and walks past the small closet she hides in when unfamiliar footsteps walk past her door, paranoia getting the best of her. She thinks it’s justified. She walks to her dingy bathroom and strips of her disguise, a breath she hadn’t known she was holding, releases.

                ‘Alba Giovanni’ disappears and for a moment, she is nothing, no one. Like she feels she’s always been. Just another faceless, silent scream in a city that never sleeps. She swallows the yawn that threatens her. She can’t seem to close her eyes, let her body rest for a moment, scared of the nightmares that would ensnare her, trap her in her mind. She’s scared to let her guard down, even for a second. A second could be everything.

                She switches the shower on, keeping it ice cold so she isn’t tempted to relax, to close her eyes. She’d be open, defenseless, a sitting duck just begging for her head to be blown apart. She clutches the pocket knife in her clenched fist, flicking it open and closed, her whole body tense and taunt as a bow string.

                The frigid water brings flashes of rainy days and calls of “ _You’re going to get sick!_ ” tears sting her eyes and a headache pulse in her brain. She thinks of the woman, the one who makes sorrow and grief build in her chest automatically, like a reflex. She shakes her head before she can get lost in the bitter sweet pain, shutting the shower off and patting a ratty towel over her skin, all the scars and beauty marks.

                It’s later, when she’s lying on her couch (wasn’t it wonderful, it was _hers_ ) when she falls asleep, and her guard is down, if only for a moment. All her walls fall as she dreams of candy floss and ocean waves, boardwalks and water boarding, screaming, dark ebony wings, and blood splatter. It was a toxic mix of happiness and terror. Nothing had changed.

                She wakes screaming, her chest heaving, black fading from her eyes and a heavy weight in her back. Something deep inside her shakes as her walls go back up. She swallows before muffling her screams by biting down hard on her fist, tears tracking down her translucent skin, cracks line the blood splattered walls and she stops, feeling the power that radiates from her, hums in her blood, the electrifying energy that surrounds her. She unfurls her raven wings and curls in on herself as someone raps on her door.

                It gets louder and louder, echoing in her head. Finally, she yells, “What?!” Her hands shake with that burn of unreleased power.

                “Alba?” Mrs. Clarkson, her neighbor, calls, sounding worried. “I heard a crash, are you okay?” She doesn’t know what to say, but she releases her fists and calms minutely. Evan swallows dryly.

                “Yeah,” she lies, “yeah, I’m okay.” She needs to go.

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you think in the comments below!


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